More Than What We Are
by stillgoldie1899
Summary: Another day, another dollar, another struggle to survive, and even the idealistic and hopeful will one day fall prey to the grinding wheels of the system by which the city exists. And when hope fails, what else is there? [ A continuation of the general ideas established in Defining Family. A loose re-interpretation of Goldilocks. ]


_Fall, 1900_

There was blood on her hands, on her face, on her clothes. Whose blood was unclear, hers or his, and although the rain battering down onto them was washing it rapidly away, it lingered in swirls and splatters on her dress and on her skin. She had never seen Jack look so peaceful, never seen such quiet on his face, and it hurt to think it was only in death that she could simply sit quietly by his side and have him seem so at peace.

He was gone, already, long before any police bothered to show up, long after most of his blood had drained away into the gutters that ran along the road he was lying on. She hadn't even tried to move him, hadn't even stood to try to drag him out of the street. It wasn't that she felt he belonged there- although he belonged there, as did she- but that she hadn't had the strength. Everything had spiraled so drastically, everything had fallen apart so quickly, everything had seemed so bright not so very long ago, and then...

She was pulled away, and he was taken away, and that was that. That was all. No service would be said for him, no mass, no words over his body. He was a nobody. He'd been born a nobody, became someone for a moment, and then sank back to where he'd started. He was as they all were, scraps of nothing under a wheel that kept turning, and ground them all into nothing. They would never be anything more.

* * *

 _Fall, 1899_

The bruises her old boss had given her were fading, finally, a faint yellow-green around one eye and along her cheek that she could hide by allowing blonde hair free from the loose braid she kept it in, letting it fall into her face. Frankie had found her back at the Dancing Dove, a few days earlier, and had dragged her out, yet again. It was the push and pull of their relationship, his foolish big brother approach to dealing with his childhood friend. He didn't seem to understand that every time she stepped back out of that place, she would be inevitably drawn back in, unable to find other work she was suited to, or that wanted her. She would end up there again, half-starved, and Andy Fitzgerald would take her back in with hungry eyes, and a nasty beating. And Frank would find her again, and drag her out again. Until he gave up and left her there, probably around the same time most of his boys grew up enough to go there themselves, and avail themselves of services they only thought about in passing now.

But for the moment there was newspaper ink on her fingers, a pathetic 20 of them folded over a rope that did more to accentuate her bosom than hold papers in a way that didn't crumple them. And as the morning wore on, and she couldn't get any traction, she began wondering when she would accept one of the leering stares she got in response to her efforts to convince the businessmen bustling from storefront to office to buy a pape. She knew damn well they'd pay her far more than a penny for what they wanted from her, and it wasn't as though she had virtue to cling to- hers was sold off long ago. She was too old for selling papers, and she knew it, and they knew it, and they seemed to also know she was no better than she seemed, able to be bought, but she was **TRYING**. She was trying to do things the way Frank asked her to, and she owed him for the papers and the money he'd given her for a bunk in a nearby women's boarding house. She owed him to try to do things the right way. Even if she knew- and even if he knew- she would fail.

And almost as though summoned by the thought of him, the boy in question appeared at her elbow, a hundred papers already gone, save one tucked under his arm, a sympathetic look on his face as he surveyed her.

 **"** Rough mornin? **"**

 **"** Frankie, I'm no good at this. Please don't keep wastin money on it. Lemme try my hand at something else. Is...is Medda lookin for dancers, or...I dunno, someone to patch up costumes or sweep up, or... **"**

 **"** Already asked. Answer was no. **"** The look on his face said all he couldn't say out loud- Medda Larkson didn't trust her as far as she could throw her, and that was a valid concern.

Nodding, she sighed, and turned back to the crowd, her voice dull. **"** If I don't sell these soon...I'm goin back to turnin tricks, Frank. **"**

He made a face, leaning on the wall next to her and lighting a cigarette, watching her try to catch the eye of a passerby and unload a newspaper or two with a clever lie. It wasn't that she could lie or make up headlines- she'd been doing that long before she'd worked at the Dove in her mother's old room- it was more that the umph wasn't there, the spark wasn't there. She was tired, and she looked it, and an unenthusiastic newsgirl was about as appealing as a pile of disintegrating leaves.

 **"** Hey...maybe call it a wash this mornin, huh, kid? **"** There was more than sympathy in his expression as he smoked his cigarette down watching her, face scrunching a little. He had asked Sarah to ask her boss at Capelli's Lace if he'd take Goldie back, but Sarah had balked at even the idea- she'd stuck her neck out for the blonde once, and couldn't afford to lose her own job over a second plea, particularly for a girl she barely liked, and who seemed determined to live her life in the gutter she'd come from rather than attempt to make her life better.

 **"** Maybe call the whole idea a wash. Frank, at least at the Dove, I got a damn bed. If I'm out here...I'm just on the street, and y'know one a'them street pimps'll get ahold a'me, and that'll be it. Ya'll find bits a'me in the river. In **BOTH** rivers. **"** She countered with a small sigh, tugging the rope over her head and shoving it at him with a pleading look.

 **"** Ya'll be fine, kid, and... **"** His voice trailed off into a small growl, heel grinding the remains of his smoke, hands shoved deep into his pockets. **"** If I gotta, I'll watch out for ya. I'll keep y'back clear a'anyone who'd try t'use ya. I just don't wantcha goin back to that place. Y'deserve better than that. **"**

 **"** I deserve a bed, Frankie. Don't I? I ain't good enough for them real classy joints, where y'gotta talk fancy and know all them things French whores do. I ain't good enough for that, but... **"**

 **"** Y'better than that. Y'better than makin a livin on y'backside, Mandy. **"** His growl only got darker, as did his look as he pushed off of the wall, jerking his head towards the Square, and, maybe, a sausage cart along the way. If he could afford that.

 **"** Why can'tcha just let me be trash? Everyone thinks it anyway...Why y'gotta keep makin me think I'll ever be anythin else? **"** She trailed after him, her small clump of papers still in her hand, voice bitter, eyes never once rising to meet his.

 **"** If y'can't be anything more than y'ma was, then I'll never be more than my pops was. **"** And that was his simple answer.

She let it go at that, falling silent, slowly becoming aware that he was doing this more for himself than for her. The selfish, needy part of her told her to shut up and accept his help, take it for all he'd give her, but the rest of her was left to feel guilty- he was pinning his own hopes on bettering her, and when he failed, he would be failing himself as well.


End file.
